The Colour of Will
by Pyrasaur
Summary: She was a tigress, but he was no prey. EdgeworthMia


She went to a trial of his, and sat amongst the spectators. Even on Mia's day off, even without a bevy of evidence crowding her mind, the courtroom was a place electric.

"I hope it's a good one," a woman said behind her, a hissing stage whisper, "I've heard this Edgeworth fellow is really something."

Yes, he was, Mia didn't reply. He held a position lawyers twice his age would envy. He had endless tricks, ready at the merest wag of his finger. He was a presence and a lawyer to be learned from -- Phoenix would face him eventually.

The trial began -- she didn't know the defense, a dark suit and a shock of brown hair. Edgeworth cut him down, correction by revelation, attacks liquid-deadly the same as his movements. The balcony was too high to see it but Mia remembered steel in his eyes, and remembered fear in her own heart. She leaned forward, elbows on the guard wall, magatama smooth between her idle fingers. Buzzing voices around her faded; the looming high walls vanished; she was watching a rival, analyzing every word he spat and and every twitch she could make out on his face. Verdict was announced, and the shadowed forms around her rose to leave, and Mia couldn't remember hearing the judge's voice but Edgeworth was smirking -- another win. She rose as well, feeling wiser but she couldn't place why.

Even if she hadn't started looking, his magenta would stand out in the courthouse crowds. A bright flash through the blues and greys, sometimes in time to catch glimpse of his face. Always alone even if he wasn't; always an odd distance between Edgeworth and anyone he spoke to. She couldn't see the steel, his bladed wit, but she knew it was there. He noticed her once -- paused and gazed back, calm as water, before he turned and his bright suit sank away into the crowd.

High-profile cases came and went, marked by the crisp slice of her scissors through newspaper. Everyone had a folder, everyone with a name known to anyone, but Edgeworth's mentions got her most careful reading. He was legend to the press -- undefeated and undauntable, merciless hound to the rich and powerful. Mia shuffled the articles, his far and near past mingled in the pool of lamplight. She underlined the word _perfect_ with dull pencil. Perfection was only a challenge, after all, an invitation to wait for a misstep. She had reason to watch him now.

She faced him in court again, hot determination a familiar ghost.

"The defense is ready, your Honor," she announced, and met his eyes across the battlefield. Steel eyes -- she would find weakness in him.

Edgeworth smiled faintly: she was welcome to try.

The proceedings turned messy, full of alibis, every fingerprint smudged. Two evenings found her sleuthing, pleading with witnesses, taking a few hours' refuge on the Fey and Co. couch when her head began to throb and her back to ache. The third morning dawned and there was nothing to defend with. Her defendant couldn't manage to look at her anymore -- she believed, she had to, she _had_ to. Edgeworth stared, and Mia stared back harder, and she slammed palms onto the stand.

"The prosecution can't prove that!" Her palms blazed. Her voice was hoarsening at its edges, her fear blotting out reason.

"Can't I?" Edgeworth smirked, suddenly a mantling falcon. "The evidence speaks for itself."

He was right. Three hard days and a thousand pressed points for nothing; Mia straightened, defeat turning stony in her chest. How many times had her defendant sworn innocence -- how many times had she believed him?

The judge's gavel fell, and it was over. Her defendant told her simply, "I'm sorry," before the guards gathered, smothering blue.

She followed Edgeworth out, followed his magenta past throngs and caught up as he paused over a thick evidence file.

"Mr. Edgeworth."

He looked to her, schooled calm in his face. "Ms. Fey." Shadows lay under his eyes; Mia would likely look in the mirror and find ones similar. Court battles were to be fought.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your verdict," Mia said, and the words didn't taste bitter at all, "Well played."

Eyeing her extended hand, thought pressing his brows, Edgeworth closed the file. He slowly, finally accepted -- his grip closed warm and firm. And like he might regret the indiscretion, he decided, "You were a worthy opponent."

He crept into her thoughts after that. She dreamt of steel and a voice low enough to purr; she woke sweating.

And the newspaper articles told her more about about nothing -- a stellar track record, his late father, she knew of those -- so Mia returned to the spectators' balcony. The memories were sharper now, of Edgeworth's eyes when she was close enough to see their flash, of his jaw tightening at an accusation. She sensed his reprimanding gestures before they came, knew where his objections would strike, guessed every point of attack and her canniness blurred away; the case was a show Edgeworth stole. There was his steel resolve, laced with deadly calm, taking all comers and Mia watched his arm straighten for a cry -- something soft reminded her that it had been a long time. _Years_. She left, rapid click of her heels drowning out the trial below.

Bench wood bit into her thighs, harsh as her own confusion. Courtroom doors groaned open and a case's worth of people streamed out. She didn't rise until his bright colour flashed in her peripheral vision.

"Mr. Edgeworth."

The hunting paid off in one brilliant instant -- he noticed her and jerked, steel faltering, calm absent.

"Ms. Fey?"

Here was his startled misstep, fresh off a victory; here was Mia's chance. A smile spread warm over her face. "Another winning verdict? Congratulations."

"Thank you." Presence returned to Edgeworth, a gathering of wits she could nearly watch on him. She was a tigress, but he was no prey. "Are you planning on making a habit of this?"

"Actually, I was hoping to talk with you."

His brow quirked; Mia held his gaze, pulse thundering through her.

"I...have matters to attend to."

"I don't mean right now." She had her card between sure fingers, before a slightest thought had formed. "Whenever you'd like. Alright?"

The calm mask faltered. And Edgeworth took the card, muttering, "Good day, Ms. Fey," stalking away into the crowds.

It grew awkward with memory, but nothing ventured meant nothing gained -- Mia knew that. She poured vigour into a new case. She straightened Phoenix's new badge on his collar. Steel and magenta lingered in her dreams and she supposed she understood.

It was a week later that Mia sat trimming newspaper into neat rectangles, arranging timelines, honing her arsenal. Darkness and whispering car engines called through the window blinds; duty called her to the printed words. She raised fingetips to forehead, rubbed slowly and that was when the office door creaked; her attention shot upward, to a silhouette she knew.

"I couldn't help but notice you working late." Edgeworth closed the door with a slow click. "Am I intruding, Ms. Fey?"

"Mia." And he was Miles; it didn't suit the fierce creature she knew.

He nodded. The furnishings tugged his attention in an idle arc, and his feet rooted in the open floor.

"I believe I know what you're thinking," he said quietly.

She had pondered dates, dinners and fantasies; none fit exactly. But he visited in the night for a reason, thought wrenching his movements, perhaps the thought that plagued her. Mia rose. Shadows suited Edgeworth, soft-painted on his face, stark in cravat's regal folds.

"And I'm... I don't have the time for social engagements. My work is priority."

She didn't bother with her heels; her bare feet fell silent, heart climbing her throat as she said, "I know. I wasn't looking for a promise from you."

Close enough to smell aftershave's spice, close enough to watch the steel and calm warring in his eyes -- the advantage was hers and she pressed forward. Another crack spidered through perfection, Edgeworth glancing down to her curves and back to lock gazes.

"Then...?"

She slid touch around the nape of his neck; he stiffened but obliged her, and Mia smiled. "Just your attention."

Warm, firm hands marked trails on her. Springs creaked, her shuddering breath breaking against his neck. The memory of steel eyes drove her -- a battle and a contest, always.

Before he left -- flush hid behind his bangs -- Edgeworth paused, and smoothed her hair with quick fingers. There was no more tenderness about it than refastening jacket buttons, nothing more intimate than warding off the world's uncouth attention. He favoured her with smirk -- steel without malice, that made the hunt worthwhile.

The thought resumed gnawing on him in the weeks to come, but then a new case arrived. He retreated to his study to pore over its file, brows knitted. Struggle; flight; a lethal blow to the head. Last efforts spent scribing a name in blood. Mia Fey's photo hung by a paper clip, smiling at nothing -- certainly not at him. He closed the file. Revenge would be tacky, and mourning too trite; he was Miles Edgeworth. All he ever needed was a verdict to win.


End file.
